


enough of the stars

by cosmicpoet



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:55:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15727965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Grantaire wants to kill himself one night, not understanding how that will impact him in death.





	enough of the stars

Grantaire wonders about all the stars that have died in the sky above him. Each with an endless story, the wonder of hope and light, travelling endlessly only to shine on him, standing outside his car in the dead of night. With twilight long since passed, only the cool air of an empty universe surrounds him; shivering, lonely, a blip on a canvas that’s painting itself.

Ah, his paintings. Stuffed into the boot of his car, they’re not worth selling or even displaying in his one bedroom apartment. Every art gallery he’s tried to make his name at has told him that he’s too heavy-handed, that oil paints shouldn’t stick up from cloth like they’re trying to break free from the chains of a bad artist; they don’t understand, that the idea of a bad artist makes art itself, and the idea of swallowing oil in a body of water will make certain parts of a depressed soul stick out into oblivion.

There’s nobody next to him. He’s willing to bet that there’s nobody around for at least a four-mile radius, when he’s parked in the middle of a forgotten field in an infinity, a timeline, that has been forgotten by all that’s important in the world. Of course, people will blame Enjolras. Perhaps even his friends will - he imagines Joly retracting, subconsciously, his warmth from his own leader, blaming him for the death of someone who only ever sat on the sidelines. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.

In fact, Grantaire scoffs at the mere imagination of it. Enjolras’ self-importance once drew him in, and in honesty, it still does, but the idea of someone he admires so much blaming himself for his death…well, it’s laughable, really. Enjolras would never blame _himself._ He’d work it around the cause, with his one-track mind blurring out genuine human emotion, because revolutions will soon be won by machines, and Grantaire imagines that Enjolras will want to get a head start on that. If he hopes hard enough, he can imagine that his death will even mean something.

But that’s just too much to fake.

Enough about Enjolras. Enough about the stars. He’s not here to focus on the menial things, like his own life, and the wake in which he will leave. All that really matters right now is the rag in his hand, attached to a hose, which will soon enough be stuck steadfast into his exhaust pipe. With each coil of cloth, he imagines another reason why this is the right thing; why he should die.

_I’m worthless. My existence only serves to drag people down. I’m just meandering along in a world that’s out of tune with me, like a glitch in an otherwise perfectly working system, and once I remove myself, things will right themselves. The revolution will pass, and there will be another cause to come along and brighten Enjolras’ mind; I will be useful in my death. I will stop dragging everyone down and finally be free in the eternity of nothing. If souls are real, and mine is damned to hell, then I’ll satiate the yearning in the pit of my stomach and be free in pain and in relief._

The hose goes into the exhaust pipe of his car without Grantaire even realising that he was the one to put it in. Thankfully, his car is old - far older than the things he’s researched, like catalytic converters - it should do for the job.

For a moment, he imagines his parents. At least, what he remembers of them; they left him to fend for himself when he was only a teenager, but he can’t bring himself to hate them. After all, he’d do the same thing, faced with the responsibility of a creature like himself. But his mother’s face, soft and smiling, rings in his mind. He doesn’t know where she is now - is she dead? Would she care if _he_ was?

No, now isn’t the time for doubt. With the exhaust pipe running carbon monoxide through the hose and into the window of his car, cracked open only enough to let the cord through, all he can think of is death; that sweet eternity that will either embrace him with welcome, or with the coldness of a snake shedding its skin. Either way, the useless preamble of his life will be over.

He doesn’t fall asleep immediately. Instead, his eyes widen as he sees Enjolras, running towards the car, panic written across his Achillean face - but no! This can’t be the tragedy that such a doomed, beautiful soul is destined for. Grantaire should die alone, he’s always believed so, even Enjolras, with his biting words in fleeting anger convinced him of that, no matter how many times the object of his affections apologised afterwards. 

But there’s Enjolras, ripping open the door of the car, now. Pulling Grantaire out, lying him on the grass, brushing his hair from his face and sobbing into his chest. How did he find him? Is this fate…destiny?

For every Enjolras, there’s a Grantaire; much as Achilles had Patroclus. Why, now, is Grantaire observing his own body from the sidelines as Enjolras tries to give CPR, his shaking hands dialling for an ambulance? Unless…

Looking down, Grantaire sees only ground. So it worked. He’s…

He’s dead.

And that’s good. That’s…good?

But seeing Enjolras, soaking up more emotion than Grantaire has ever seen him express, makes his distant mind feel so unsure. And then he realises. Destiny is cruel.

Because he may be dead, but his love lives on. And there’s a part of his un-beating heart that tells him, now, stories of how he is bound to the mortal soul of such a blazing revolutionary. He doesn’t deserve this. To be chained in immortality to such beauty, and yet be denied the release of death that he craved, that was his whole reason to inhale carbon monoxide and kill himself?

* * *

 

Enjolras storms into the Musain the next morning, flyers in hand. Grantaire, wistful and empty, is forced by the universe to follow him.

“Fuck the campaigns,” he says, forceful, “we’re taking a month off and putting all of our resources into suicide awareness.”

Joly glares at him.

**Author's Note:**

> Oof I haven't written for this pairing since I was 15...it's amazing how I can be yeeted back into loving e/R years later. Cheers to my faves, and pour one out for the fact that I took a French first year course for uni recently and freaked it when the 1832 Rebellion was mentioned. If you wanna see more e/R from me, let me know!


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